It's the Little Things
by Grayson's Redoubt
Summary: Shauna Vayne is the last of her house, of her name-and instead of live her days out in peace, she's chosen to hunt the darkness, both within, and without, the League. [Tiny stories spawned from my sister's word prompts]
1. Shatter

The girl hides under the door, the carpet sliding over it with a familiar sound. She remembers her mother hushing her, shooing her into the small area. 'Something bad was coming', she'd said. And little Shauna believed her mother without question.

'Aren't you coming too?' the girl had asked, pleading with those large grey eyes of hers. And her mother had merely pushed her, gently, closing the door over her daughter.

'Stay there, Shauna.'

Her mother's screams were the most vivid of the memories, Vayne knew. It had been that day that her heart had shattered. To this day, the shards ground painfully into her—she made herself into a stone, a rock others could rely on. The darkness would no longer be something to be afraid of. It would no longer swallow frightened girls, no longer spawn madness and evil. The dark was her home now; she would shatter as her heart had been shattered, and it would hold no more fear.


	2. Foolish

[ Liberally borrowed Widowmaker's human name for this ]

* * *

Feet slam into the ground, boots heavy on every step. This chase was going on far longer than it should; Demacians were beginning to take notice. When Demacians took notice, Vayne knew it wouldn't be much longer before the paragon of Demacia himself—Garen Crownguard—arrived. She did not need Garen cleaning up… or interfering.

A hand catches crates in her way, vaulting the lithe framework of the Night Hunter over to tumble on the other side.

Ah, there was her mark.

Vayne darts forward, taking risks to close the distance—she knew she should give up this chase and hunt the witch down later, but she had the other in her gaze now.

Crossbow lands in her hands, the worn wood smooth against her palms. "Amelie Lacroix, you are sentenced to death for black magic—for twisting it to your own selfish desires at the cost of countless lives."

Before the witch had a chance to escape again, Vayne's finger twitched against the trigger, firing a heavy, silver-tipped bolt, watching impassively as it tore into Amelie, as the impact slammed the woman into the wall to bleed out.

This did not satisfy the Night Hunter, and another bolt was drawn, another released… this time ensuring the witch's death.

Vayne would melt into the shadows once more—before the Demacian guard arrived (and she could hear their boots now).


	3. Stone

Heels click on marble, dress flowing and clinging to the Demacian's legs. She may be the last of her house, but her name, her house, still stood. Shauna Vayne of Demacia stood as representative of house Vayne, first and last of her name, the survivor of evils, the purifier of darkness, the Night Hunter. Tonight, she was simply Shauna Vayne, first and last of her name.

Stone under her feet, stone to her sides, above her head—the palace was meant to survive the ages. It had a distinctly military feel to it; Noxian, even, were she to observe it closely. But of course, this was the embassy—a place of mutual truce. Should blood be shed on these grounds, the guilty would be ostracized from their home, cast out in exile.

She did not feel safe here, of course, but she was aware none would dare make an overt move, surrounded by this stone, by the trappings of finery. Red painted her lips, dusted her cheeks and black lined the edges of her eyelids. This Shauna Vayne looked nothing like the Vayne of Demacia's whispers.

Here, her facade was as of stone, as of the finely wrought work around her.


	4. Headstrong & Patience

'This is no way for the future heir to behave.'

'You're not a child much longer, Shauna.'

The girl didn't care too much for those warnings. It was summer; there were other children to play with, other houses and families to visit. Vayne had little use for her studies during this time—after all, all they did was keep her from the sunlight and the fresh air. The winters were not so bad, but she was still a stubborn girl about them. She had no dreams of finding a suitor in a few years, no desires to stay indoors and learn her craft. No, all Shauna wanted to do was go outside, dance in the sunlight, revel in companionship, perhaps swing a sword.

Her studies could wait; they always were there, after all.

* * *

Shauna Vayne was nothing if not patient. She needed the capability to remain still and silent for long periods of time. She has mastered this, among many other things, in the time it took to become a woman. Her patience has netted many a user of black magic—her patience has earned her contacts, people willing to pass along rumors and information in exchange for a bit of coin.

Patience is everything to Vayne. Without it, she could not rely on her abilities. Without it, she could not hunt down and end someone's reign of terror. Without it, she could not bring down those who used magic to their selfish ends.

Without patience, she would never be able to tackle the self-titled Sovereign. Yes, even Syndra must fall.


	5. Evanescent Freedom

Skies grey and clouds gather. Vayne sits atop Demacia's architecture, staring out at the oncoming storm in silence. The wind came, strong and cold, bringing with it the scent of petrichor. Eyes the color of the clouds drift closed, and Vayne inhales. It was so fleeting, this moment, but it was her favorite. The calm before the storm, the winds and the cool air.

When the rain began to fall, the winds died down, soon replaced by lashing water, pulled asunder by sudden gusts. Still, she sat there, soaking in the downpour, the lightning illuminating her figure for just a blink of one's eyes. Shauna Vayne can be there one moment, and gone the next, but she chose to remain. This was her home, and, she mused, every once in awhile, it was worth watching like this.

Vayne, last of her name, both has all the freedom she'd want, and yet none of it. She is Shauna Vayne of Demacia, and she is Vayne the Night Hunter.

She cannot simultaneously be both, yet she is all the same. Vayne has the night to cloak in, rooftops to hunt across, alleys to hunt through…

And the Lady Shauna must be wary of political intrigue from the other city-states-she must be able to play the Game with Noxus or Piltover. She is finery and glittering; a gilt bird in a cage.


	6. Judgement

To judge witches-that was not something Vayne should do, if one asked the Demacian judicial system.

If one asked Vayne, well… the judgement was hers. It would be until the end of time. Even for a military state, Demacia's judicial system was far too slow to judge witches. Shauna Vayne was compelled to take this into her own hands.

Silver tipped bolts bury themselves in wood, the metal head beneath the silver driving deep.

"This is your judgement."

This bolt hits the mark, crippling her fleeing target. "You have used magic irresponsibly, for your own gains without regard to the innocent lives you have cost."

Another bolt strikes true, this one killing the witch. "And thus…" murmurs the Night Hunter, "your sentence is death."


	7. Skin, Destruction, Longing

Shauna Vayne sat on the edge of her bed, stretching pale legs out in front of her. She didn't look up, refusing to meet her own murky eyes in the mirror. Her skin stretches against her joints, bones outlined against the undefinably delicate. There is a ragged scar, skin several shades varying outlining it. Her fingers trace, idly, thoughtlessly. An early hunt had left its mark on her, flesh parting like paper and lancing agony up through her body.

Vayne's skin bears no marks of love, no half-moon bruises and the only flesh beneath her nails is that of her prey. She can't find it in herself to care.

Dark cloth contrasts sharply against her, covering only the bare minimum as she stands and crosses the floor, resigned. As last of her house, there is an expectation, an unworded promise, that Shauna Vayne does not intend to fulfil. But it does not hurt to play along, play pretend.

The stone floor is cold against her bare feet, pattering along with the softest of sounds, air brushing cool against exposed skin. She doesn't shiver, no matter the cold creeping through her limbs.

Silk and satins are cold as well, but they are encompassing. Something Vayne can hide within. Tonight, she is Shauna Vayne of house Vayne, and she will let only the fabrics of her chosen garments caress her body tonight.

* * *

Destruction was easy. It always has been.

Shauna was used to it. Demacia and Noxus have always fought with one another, with truces spread between. Destruction ran rampant.

She stood in the ruins of a home, where smouldering ash lay on the ground, stone still warm to the touch. Shauna knelt, fingers brushing soot aside to reveal the remains of a children's book, pictures once colorful now shades of gray and black. She sneezed, once, twice, nose wrinkling as the sharp tang of pyromancing exploded into the air. This wasn't a random act of cruelty, she decided, dusting off another item. A child's stuffed poro sat in the corner, once white fluff stained and singed; it would never again be clean.

Destruction wrought by a child too young to know control, and by parents afraid of the Demacian mages to seek help.

* * *

People at court spoke of longing, of coming of age and boys wooing her. Shauna Vayne always curtsied and nodded, laughing it off. Shauna Vayne did not want a suitor, nor a husband and child. She longed for nothing but parents and those she could not bring back.

Court spoke of love and lust and who had affairs with whom. It was all useful information to a girl blackmailing her way to wherever she chose. It was nothing that stirred longing in her. Shauna Vayne could not care to find this in her life.

She stares down the bolt in her crossbow, silver tip aimed at an unaware witch. Only then did her heart stir, just long enough to pull the trigger. To fire the bolt.


End file.
